Keep Me Warm
by cywscross
Summary: [DECFANFIC / Day 5] The cold reminds him of the Nogitsune.


**Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Teen Wolf.**

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><p><strong>General Warnings:<strong> AU, AU – Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, language, angst, future fic, slash, Steter, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, DECFANFIC

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><p><strong>DECFANFIC Theme 5 - Overly bundled up for the weather<strong>

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><p><strong>Summary:<strong> The cold reminds him of the Nogitsune.

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><p><span><strong>Day 5 – Keep Me Warm<strong>

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><p>"Jeez, Stiles, you're practically waddling," Erica teases when Stiles steps out onto the porch, shivering already as his breath comes out in puffs of white.<p>

"Not everyone has inbuilt furnaces like you puppies," Stiles retorts, burying his nose in his scarf. His half-dozen layers do nothing to ward off the chill that's already rattling around in his ribcage and settling into his bones. He squints uneasily at the snow swirling down from grey-clouded skies. "You know what? Maybe you guys should go without me-"

"No way," Lydia cuts him off sternly, hands on her hips. "We've been planning this for a week, and you are not backing out. Now come on; everybody's waiting."

Boyd gives him a sympathetic shrug that really doesn't convey all that much sympathy, so with a sigh, Stiles allows Erica to stow him into the car, and then they're off, trundling down the street with Boyd at the wheel. Erica hums Silver Bells in the passenger seat, and Lydia is engrossed in texting something to Jackson from beside Stiles.

Stiles sighs again and scowls moodily out the window. The heater does nothing to chase away the feeling of ice in his bloodstream.

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><p>"Whoever the fuck invented winter barbecues should be raised from the dead and shot," Stiles gripes savagely under his breath from where he's huddled as close to the campfire as physically possible without actually lighting himself on fire.<p>

The others are having fun though, and Stiles isn't _that_ much of an asshole as to ruin it for them by airing his complaints. Peter's off gathering more firewood but the others have split into two groups, and they're having a snowball fight while Derek mans the barbecue, his usual grouchy face front and center but the slightest of smiles tugging at his lips as he watches his Pack run around in the snow.

Will miracles never cease.

Stiles curls his fingers inside his mittens as he inhales another shuddering breath that puts sub-zero air into his lungs. It almost feels like he _can't_ breathe, like the Nogitsune's latched onto his soul again-

No, he shouldn't think about that. That way lies bad thoughts.

It doesn't help that the cold reminds him of the Nogitsune anyway, and for some reason, he's so much more susceptible to the wintry weather these days.

He glances at the majority of the Pack again. They've already tried nagging him to join them but Stiles drew the line at _deliberately_ soaking himself and firmly declined. Sure, the exercise might warm him up but once he cools down afterwards, he'll only feel infinitely colder than before.

Though the exercise bit may have some merit, if only because squatting beside the fire isn't working.

Mind made up, Stiles rises to his feet and heads for the tree line, slipping away unnoticed. He'll be back soon, and he doesn't need werewolf hearing to pick up the shrieks of joy and laughter coming from the clearing so he won't get lost. He'll just go for a jog – or a fast walk – before circling around to rejoin everyone. Maybe by then, he'll have warmed up a little.

He's not putting money on it though.

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><p>He ends up standing in front of the Nemeton, of course he fucking does. It's active now, but it's a controlled sort of active, not like how it was a couple years ago when it first woke up and started attracting every monster and their ghoulie grandmas to Beacon Hills. Nowadays, they only get one Big Bad every couple months or so, especially since word of the McCall Pack's improving prowess has spread over the years.<p>

Burrowing further into his jacket, Stiles takes a seat on the stump. The walk's done nothing for him, he's still as cold as before, except now he's tired as well. Again, his mind casts back to his time spent being possessed and controlled by the Nogitsune. It was like this back then too, in-between being locked inside his own head, and then for a good long while afterwards – sluggish and faintly ill and feeling like he'd never be warm again. There have been other winters since then, and they were bad enough, but this year's is extra cold, and Stiles wishes more than ever that he could simply hibernate in his bed until spring comes around again.

He could be a were-bear; that would be neat – bears have the right idea, sleeping through the winter, only waking up when they're disturbed. Are were-bears even a thing? They've had werewolves and were-coyotes and were-jaguars; were-bears can't be too far out of the realm of possibility.

...And now he's thinking about were-bears of all things. His own mind is screwing with him.

He's gone a bit numb by now, and a part of him knows that that's probably a bad thing, but it's nothing he hasn't felt before, and he's far more interested in the frozen ground under his boots. It makes him wonder if being buried would make the cold go away, and that leads to the thought of whether or not the Nogitsune felt the cold back when it was trapped beneath the Nemeton, and maybe it left that lingering chill inside Stiles and that's yet another reason why he's-

Stiles blinks. It takes a few seconds for his brain to register the fact that there's something soft but comfortably heavy added to his shoulders, and then another couple seconds to raise his head.

Blue eyes stare back at him from above, impassive as always even when Stiles feels fingers carding through his hair to comb loose a powdery layer of snow.

"It's the middle of winter," Stiles blurts out, eyeing Peter's long-sleeved turtleneck. His tongue is heavy in his mouth.

"You need it more," Peter tells him dryly, one hand tugging at the coat that he dropped on Stiles ten seconds ago. The werewolf hitches the collar up even higher until it brushes Stiles' ears. "Get up."

Stiles peers up at him, blinking slowly. "...Hm?"

Peter heaves a sigh but a minute furrow appears between his eyebrows. "Up, Stiles," The man bodily hauls him to his feet, not waiting for Stiles to move on his own. "I'm taking you home."

Stiles stumbles after the Beta, frowning in confusion. "What- Wait, what about the barbecue? Actually, why are you even here?"

Peter doesn't reply right away. In fact, he doesn't reply until he's dragged Stiles out of the forest and onto the main road, and even then, he doesn't let go of Stiles' arm, as if he thinks Stiles will fall behind or collapse if he does.

"It was obvious you weren't enjoying yourself," Peter says at last, not really answering the question at all, but then that's classic Peter. "And you were all but setting yourself on fire, which – for future reference – I wouldn't recommend. I'm surprised none of the others picked up on it." His lip curls. "Then again, none of them have ever been accused of being observant."

Stiles would roll his eyes or at least rally a defense if he doesn't feel so miserable at the moment. Instead, he concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other, simultaneously crowding as close to Peter as possible without making it too noticeable. The werewolf is a solid line of heat next to him, and Stiles sort of just wants to melt into it.

It takes him a minute to realize that Peter is watching him, something like concern lurking in the set of his jaw and the crease of his brow.

"'m'fine," Stiles' mouth automatically produces. His words slur together. Peter's lips thin with displeasure.

But, "You're even quieter than usual these days when you're thinking about the Nogitsune," is all he says, voice flat and indecipherable.

Stiles almost trips over thin air. Peter's hand tightens around the crook of his elbow, the other snakes around to clasp his waist, and the werewolf all but lifts Stiles off the ground before depositing him back down again on steadier feet.

"...'m not _that_ quiet," Stiles mumbles with half-hearted conviction. It's all he can manage right now.

"Compared to when you were a teenager?" Peter scoffs. "You're practically a ghost."

Stiles would sulk if he had the energy. Well, maybe not sulk; twenty-year-olds aren't supposed to do that anymore.

"My Spark's gone out," Stiles reminds him in an attempt at being punny. It doesn't really work out seeing as he isn't exactly joking. His Spark got rid of the Nogitsune for good, just in time to save Allison too, but the damn fox also snuffed out Stiles' Spark right before it died, maybe in retaliation or maybe it was simply the cost of destroying a thousand-year-old fox spirit. After all, Deaton swore up and down that a Nogitsune couldn't be killed, yet Stiles did it – pulling off the impossible, just another day in good old Beacon Hills.

After that, Stiles has never been the same since. He's healed as much as possible, but he's never as energetic as he used to be, and – of course – he's far more vulnerable to temperature changes.

He tries though. He keeps up the snark and the banter as much as he can. Just – sometimes – it honestly doesn't feel worth it.

"Perhaps," Peter acknowledges grudgingly, and that subtle flash of simmering rage that makes the werewolf's eyes go extra blue – a reaction that still surprises Stiles even now – flares to life on his face. "But I think you're still in possession of your higher mental faculties so one would hope that you would at least be smart enough to actually use them to maintain your own health."

Stiles does roll his eyes this time, sagging a little against Peter when the man pulls him closer as they head further into town.

"I just don't like being cold," Stiles admits, trying not to breathe in too deeply. Each inhalation seems to fill his lungs with frost instead of oxygen. "But the barbecue's a pack thing, and the others wanted me to go. They already give me enough leeway as it is."

And they do – they try to be considerate of Stiles'... condition, the way he's not all there some days, considerate to the point where Stiles feels like screaming on occasion, but they try, and he tries, and in all honesty, things are a lot better now compared to the months immediately following the Nogitsune's defeat. Back then, the loss of his Spark had him checking out more often than not, trapped inside his own head and staring at nothing.

"They wouldn't have to if you had simply let the Argent girl die," Peter grits out, and _that_ stirs something out of Stiles' deadened state.

"_Peter_," Stiles growls, mustering a sharp glare. There are days when Allison still feels guilty about that, and Peter's the one who tends to mention it every so often, especially at the beginning, always poking at the issue like he was punishing Allison for living. Even if she isn't here at the moment, Stiles isn't about to let the eldest Beta trash talk her yet again.

Peter returns his glower with a twist of a smile that looks torn between relief and derision.

"Your spark isn't _all_ gone," Peter remarks, blatantly ignoring the look of disapproval Stiles is directing at him. "And the Pack will survive without you for a mere barbecue. They'll even survive without me."

"Imagine that," Stiles mutters snidely, and then blinks, startled by his own words. Beside him, Peter huffs his amusement into his ear.

"Let's get you home," Peter repeats. "It would be a waste to let you catch your death because you lacked common sense."

Stiles should probably put up more of a fight. Instead, he grumbles wordlessly for a few seconds before subsiding once more, letting Peter lead him home.

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><p>They make it back to Stiles' house soon enough. Peter wrestles him out of his winter clothes before bundling him up again under a mountain of blankets on the couch.<p>

"Still cold?" Peter enquires, idly flicking the TV on from his perch at the end of the sofa.

Stiles shrugs dully, lethargic and tired. He knows – logically – that his body temperature has risen back to warmer levels but he still feels frozen to the core.

Peter frowns at him, and then – without so much as a by-your-leave – he lifts one corner of the half dozen blankets currently cocooning Stiles, slides in next to him, shifts Stiles onto his lap, and promptly curls around him like it's a perfectly normal thing to do.

Stiles stares blankly at a rerun of The Nightmare Before Christmas playing on the screen. "_What_."

Peter snorts quietly from behind him, arms coiling around his waist even further. "Werewolves run at higher temperatures," The man reminds him nonchalantly. "Now watch the movie, Stiles, or go to sleep. You look like you're in rather desperate need of some of the latter."

Stiles wrinkles his nose but can't actually bring himself to move away from the heat pressed against his back. "...I get nightmares sometimes."

"That's not news," Peter informs him bluntly, but then, more softly, "There is no Nogitsune; you destroyed it. And even if you didn't, I'd rip its throat out before it got anywhere near you again."

That matter-of-fact statement should be laughable. It should not be as reassuring to him as it is.

Yet, a few minutes later, with the murmur of the television and the distant ticking of a clock in his ears, and the cold in his bones being steadily driven from his body, Stiles finds himself nodding off anyway, head lolling back against Peter's shoulder. The last thing he feels before falling asleep entirely is the press of lips against his temple, and this time, he doesn't dream at all.

When he wakes up, Peter's still wrapped around him, and – even if it won't last – in that moment at least, Stiles is drowsily, contentedly warm.

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